


In the Hands of the Gods

by magelette



Category: Song of the Lioness - Tamora Pierce
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-22
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:24:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magelette/pseuds/magelette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate world with no Alanna -- George didn't know how he'd gotten lucky enough to fall for the prince, but he knew they both had a rough road ahead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Hands of the Gods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleMissGriff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissGriff/gifts).



"Bless me, Crooked God." Usually, this was an exclamation, not a prayer. Usually, if he had something serious he needed, he invoked Mithros and avoided any potential deity sibling rivalry. Not that he made it a habit of conversing with gods, mind. It'd just become a habit over the years.

"Majesty, what--" Stefan Groomsman stared at George as he snuck in through the stables, swathed in the robes of a Mithran monk.

"Jon's leaving for Tuisane, idiot," was all George said as he swept past the blond hostler. Stefan and his messenger birds had saved countless hides on numerous occasions, but this time, George's own Sight had told him to get his arse to the palace.

And Duke Roger himself was going to lead the defending forces.

There was no proof that His Grace had sent the Sweating Sickness four years ago, but George knew the only reason the prince survived was because of Stefan's messenger birds, and an old spell that George's mother had taught him from her priestess days at the Temple of the Mother. Usually, only women were able to invoke the spell, but the Crooked God, George's own patron, had intervened on his behalf with both the Mother and Mithros. Damned Crooked God probably just wanted to get back in favor with his more powerful family members.

And he still had nightmares about the Ysandir and the Black City. As much as George admired the Bazhir and the warmth of the desert, he never -- ever -- wanted to attempt that disguise again. Not only had it almost cost him his throne, it had almost cost him Jon as well.

"In that case, Majesty," Stefan said, "you might want to take this with you." He shoved something prickly into George's hand.

As he made his way through the servants' tunnels into the palace, George wondered when had he done something as foolish as falling in love with the crown prince of Tortall. Had it been when Myles dragged half of the pages down to the Lower City for a field trip? Jon, Gary and Raoul had been cut off from the rest of the group and some thugs -- none of George's, mind -- descended on the then-pages and attempted to rob them. Attempted, because no one had anticipated that three noble boys would defend themselves so well. Myles had brought them all down to the Lower City in disguise; that was the last time George underestimated Roald's unofficial spymaster.

It wasn't until the Ysandir that either he or Jon made a move. George defeated the male Ysandir in hand-to-hand combat and Jon had used his more powerful Gift to blow them back to wherever he did. They'd both all but collapsed in the Black City, barely managing to drag themselves to the closest oasis they could find, George's robes in tatters and Jon's Gift completely used up. They'd fallen into the small pool almost before their feet hit the ground. And then one had grabbed the other, and George would remember the taste of Jon's mouth to his dying day.

"Excuse me." At the sound of Jon's deep voice, George turned around and shook back his hood. Jon just stood there, sapphire blue eyes wide with shock. "Are you crazy? Some of My Lord Provost's men _do_ know what you look like."

George grinned sheepishly. "Glad to see that you're upset for my safety, Highness. I'm touched." He reached out his arms to Jon, but Jon, damn him, dodged.

"You're insane!" Jon snapped, but then recovered that damned royal mask he always tried to wear. "But since you're here, you must have a reason." He crossed his arms, wearing what George thought of as 'the royal prick' look. "Why are you here?"

"I thought you mightn't get the chance to come down to the city before you rode out, and I wanted to have a word with you." George grinned crookedly. "Or a bit of a tumble, Highness." They weren't exactly exclusive, though George was reasonably sure that Jon hadn't tupped anyone else lately, and the entire Dancing Dove knew how empty his own bed was. Jon would have to marry a princess for dynastic reasons -- or, at the very least, find a prince consort and a woman willing to carry his children -- and he really doubted that King of the Rogues counted as legitimate royalty.

The hard look in Jon's eyes softened. "George--" This time, he grabbed George by the arms and kissed George hard, hungrily -- regretfully. "I can't--"

"I know." Reluctantly, George pulled away. "I did, actually, come to bring you this." Well, he'd really just come to say goodbye, but at least the hostler had provided him with a legitimate reason. He fished the burr out of his pocket, placing it in Jon's outstretched hand. "Stefan found this in Duke Gareth's saddle blanket. He said a new man saddled the Duke's horse, then vanished."

Jon turned the burr over carefully in his hand, studying it. "And you suspect foul play."

George placed his hands gently on Jon's arms, pulling him close. "Who benefits from this, Jon? I doubt Tuisane would go out of their way to try and remove Duke Gareth from command, but someone under him..."

He knew Jon would jerk back, because as many times as they'd had this conversation about his cousin Roger, Jon still didn't believe George. That would probably be their breaking point, one of these years, if it wasn't My Lord Provost or any of the other obstacles that stood between them.

"Be careful," he whispered. He moved one hand to smooth it over Jon's black curls, brushing them out of those vivid eyes. "Would that I didn't have to stay here and keep my own in line. But we both know that a missing Rogue's a dead Rogue, and with as many of My Lord Provost's men knowing my fine face, I can't exactly sneak in amongst your soldiers either."

Jon touched George's cheek. "Or pose as my squire, convenient as it would be," he responded in a soft, joking tone. He leaned forward, kissing George gently. "I'll be all right. And if things get bad, I'll go to Myles. He's smart enough for three of us."

And Myles already knew about George's concerns. He was the first person George had gone to once Stefan had handed George the burr, not that he'd ever tell Jon that.

So he leaned in to kiss Jon again, hands roaming lower and lower down the prince's body until he was pressed flesh against the prince's own erect form. "Jon," he groaned, knowing that they had mere moments before they were disturbed.

Usually, the prince was the one to break the embrace -- their nights together were rare and precious, but Jon was always careful to remember his duties, and exactly who he was bedding on those occasions. "George, your Sight -- does it show you anything?" His hand caught George's and guided it to Jon's erection. It would have to be quick -- not the slow lovemaking that he knew they both preferred.

George, Jon, and a convenient sofa in the Lesser Library -- not his first choice for a rendezvous, but one George knew would not be their last; his Sight told him that much, at least. Still, while Jon was in the Drell River Valley, George would have this memory to remind him: the crushed velvet under his knees as he straddled Jon, the exquisite look of longing and lust on Jon's face and the sheer rawness of emotion that George only really saw when he was hilt deep in the prince's warmth. The King of Rogues tupping the future King of Tortall -- except it went both ways, and there were days when George sat on his throne at the Dancing Dove, feeling that burn, and loving both the position he was in and the man he was lucky enough to call lover.

"It's in the hands of the gods, now," he groaned out as he thrust, one. Last. Time. Jon muffled his own cry as Jon's body spasmed around George's spent cock, and they both collapsed onto the pile of George's robes and the poor, misused sofa.

Jon craned his head up, kissing George as sweetly as he could. "So mote it be, my liege."

And all George could do was kiss him back. "So mote it be."


End file.
